I have no stories. I have become what I feared most, a mind bubbling over with clatter and disjointed sounds lacking the will to arrange them into symphony, like I like to hear.

I can't focus. my brain just seems all mushed up and my thoughts with it. I try to think of something to write on, anything but nothing comes to me. I fear I may have to tell my friends that I cannot continue to write there anymore. I'd really hate to fill it with empty stories ... but something says to me, just write, write and write this dry spell away. That's the only way to do it. To sit and let defeat lay roots and grow would be to die.

I read that "what they said" book today. Mel says he expects little of life and so cannot be disappointed with whatever befalls him, good or bad. I think it is wise to be of this mind set. To find contentment in whatever little life deals you, in a way, to be thankful for one's struggles, maybe in that way ... maybe in that way of thinking, failure is not failure - an end, just part of the ride like a speed bump on the freeway, an obstacle in an obstacle course.

Life may seem easier without setbacks but notice how depression rises out of a static, monotonous life. It's depression that haunts me, I give it time to fester when I see failure as a reason to pause. Just like a moving stream stays clear and healthy, a still pond fears the sun, the earth and the life in it, with reason. They will suffocate and kill it.